Courtiers and Faeries
by Elfpen
Summary: '"What if some courtier comes by and sees you drinking with me?" Gawain grinned. "What if some faery comes by and sees you drinking with me? Who would be more shocked?"' my collection of Squire's Tales oneshots and drabbles, mainly focusing on Terence and the trials of being a faery prince in an unsuspecting English court. Guest-star one shots a high probability.
1. Bad Timing

A/N: Feste the Fool encouraged me that writing a fic composed entirely of oneshots and drabbles was a perfectly acceptable pastime, so please enjoy my splurge writing.

* * *

It wasn't unusual for Terence to leave Camelot. Knights and Squires aside, Terence was a duke. As such, he had plenty of duties back in Avalon to attend to when he wasn't scrubbing armor or serving at banquets. He left for Avalon with relative frequency, especially when Gawain was staying at court for long periods of time. When no one would miss him, he would excuse himself from Gawain's service for a few days and leave for his home.

The life of a squire was busy enough that Terence never ran out of excuses. He was running errands, Gawain would tell Tor and Arthur, when they asked after the missing squire. He was helping a friend in the kitchens. He was cleaning armor. Tending to Guingalet. Running messages. Teaching other squires.

Alright, 'never' might've been a generous word. Usually, Terence came and went – even if he was gone for a week or more – without anyone noticing. Gawain would prepare an excuse for every absence beforehand, and no one was the wiser about Terence's actual whereabouts.

But then, Avalon went through political seasons just as Camelot or any other court. In the past few months, the Seelie court had been through no less than a dozen scandals, and a handful of major crimes. It didn't spell war or ultimate disaster, but it was one giant pain in the neck, and the brunt of the damage came down on Terence's shoulders.

He'd left for an entire week and came back, only to leave again the next day when Robin came to fetch him. Between the trials and councils and managerial duties, and having to come back to Camelot and act like a normal squire all over again, Terence's longsuffering nerves were reaching their breaking point.

It was something Gawain had never seen before, and he'd been treading on eggshells around his friend ever since the fiasco had started. His own nerves were suffering, too. He felt duty-bound to cover for Terence as completely as possible so the squire wouldn't have to deal with it when he got back, and was growing weary of the effort. To take his mind off it, Gawain took advantage of Terence's absence by having Arthur over for a private visit. It was usually the king who was stressed and in need of a reprieve, but when things were well in Camelot, Arthur was of a presence more calming than Terence's most masterfully brewed cup of tea.

They'd had dinner (provided by the kitches, of course, not Terence) and a good hearty debate over the political benefit of hosting frequent banquets and tournaments (Arthur was of the mind that banquets were more productive, Gawain of course favored tournaments) but now the conversation had died, the hour was late, and worse of all, the cider was nearly gone.

"Something's been troubling you," Arthur said, and it sounded as though he'd been waiting to say it for a while. "I've seen you worried before, but these days, you look constantly irritated."

Gawain sighed, and shook his head. "My Lord, I… I'm alright. Just… had a rough week, is all."

Arthur shot him a look, but didn't pursue it. "It's not that, I can tell. But alright." He took a swallow of his cider. "Now. I believe you said something about berry pasties, earlier, didn't you?"

At that moment, the door opened and slammed shut. Footsteps sounded at the entryway, and Gawain knew immediately who it was.

"Terence? That you?" He called loudly, hoping his tone would alert Terence that they weren't alone. "You're back early," He added. Judging by the breath he took, it sounded as though Arthur was about to speak up as well, but before could, Terence broke in angrily,

"If that blasted, green-faced idiot carts his pointy-eared self within half a mile of me in the next _decade_," He was stomping down the hallway but still not in sight, "I will _personally_ sign his reassignment to the nearest bogland before he can lift a finger to-"

Terence had come into the main room, seen Arthur, and froze. Arthur was perhaps as startled as Terence was, because Terence didn't look like… Terence. In place of his usual plain squire's tunic was a rich blue quilted doublet, smooth and embroidered with subtle filigree designs, with a stiff collar whose high sides and back emphasized his face flatteringly. His hair was freshly cleaned and amidst the black curls, Arthur could see a gold circlet resting atop his head.

Beside Arthur, Gawain looked like he wished the ground would swallow him. He brought a hand up to his face and looked down, anywhere but at Terence, and especially not at Arthur.

"…Squire Terence," Arthur mustered eventually.

Terence was looking directly at Arthur. The shock of seeing the king had worn off, but Terence kept on staring, as if just by _not_ looking down at himself, the formal wear would disappear and Arthur would forget he'd ever seen anything out of the ordinary.

Of course, no such luck. After a very tense silence, Terence sighed.

"That's it," he snapped. "Gawain, I'm going to bed." He took a step and paused for a wince when he realized he'd said 'Gawain' and not 'my lord'. Shaking his head, (because honestly, how much worse could this get?) he reached up, ripped the circlet off his head, and stomped into his room.

It was a long, long time before either knight or king said anything. Gawain took his half-full tankard and tipped it into his mouth, letting it stay there until it was dry.

"Sir Gawain," Arthur said, and Gawain wondered exactly how much trouble something like this might merit. Damn Terence for abandoning him with a confused king and conversation this convoluted to handle on his own. His Royal Highness, Duke of Avalon or not, Gawain thought it was uncalled for.

"Yes, my liege?" Gawain asked, hoping that if he just _sounded _casual enough, Arthur would drop it.

"…Is there something you want to explain to me, nephew?"

"I have no idea what you could be referring to, your Majesty," Gawain was pressing his luck.

Of course Terence had to step in and make it even worse.

"Oh, by the way, Gawain," Terence poked his head out of the door. He was shirtless, now, but the royal crest of Avalon still hung from his neck on a pendant. "Lorie and my father send their love. You might as well take this before I forget about it." He flicked a letter at Gawain, who caught it in his lap. Terence's door slammed behind him.

Arthur reached across and picked up the envelope and turned it over. A neat wax seal held the page closed, and the crest imprinted on the wax was clear and readable.

"Avalon," Arthur read, and shot his eyes up to Gawain. "…are you _sure _there's nothing to explain to me, Sir Gawain?" He asked.

Gawain let his head sink into his hands. "Damnit, Terence."


	2. Opinionated

Hosting banquets and dinners was part of daily life in any court. The nobility loved them, because they offered free food, gossip, and an excuse to flaunt the most ridiculous and expensive clothing. King Arthur's banquets were the best, of course, because a king always had to throw the best parties, the most savory dinners, the most enjoyable banquets. Still, holding a banquet and _having to _hold a banquet were two very different realities. There were plenty of annual celebrations, such as Christmas and Harvestfest, that Arthur genuinely enjoyed hosting. They were the most open, welcoming, and generous of all the celebrations. But then, there were other matters, such as state dinners.

It was customary for a king to treat incoming lords at court to a dinner upon their arrival. It was good hospitality, good for relations, and gave Arthur and his inner counsel a chance to catch up with news brought in from the far reaches of the kingdom, and personal affairs of England's dukes and barons. Since the rule applied universally to the lords of Arthur's kingdom, he often got the treat of hosting people like his nephew, Sir Gawain, when he returned from Orkney or from another one of his quests. Perhaps Parsifal would visit from Belrepeire, and of course, Sir Parsifal was about as polite and honest of company as a king could ask for.

But then, there were plenty of _other _lords of Britain that came to Camelot day in and day out, and no matter how dull or unlikable they were, they all merited their own dinners with the king, per protocol. Such dinners were chores for everyone involved: the kitchens, the waiting staff, the inner circle of the Round Table that attended to support their king. No one enjoyed them, but somehow, knowing that Arthur disliked them just as much as anyone made them bearable for everyone else through the strangely bond-building phenomenon of unified distaste.

Gawain had taken part in many a distasteful state dinner for many a distasteful lord over the years, but as he sipped on his wine and tried to look unquestionably interested in whatever half-arsed conversation was floating around the table, he thought he'd never attended a dinner for a lord so distasteful as this one.

Sir Turdoc had come to Camelot from his home in Rutland earlier in the week. Although neither Arthur nor Gawain nor anyone else in a hundred leagues had ever heard of him before he appeared on the front porch, he was, apparently, of the most famous of knights in all of England. Well, that is if his personal minstrel was to be believed. He did have a personal minstrel, whom he'd brought along in addition to two squires, a page, six horses, (two of which were stallion chargers) a carriage, two suits of armor (a tourney suit and a war suit), no less than twenty suitcases and enough opinionated conversation to fill all of them.

"It's a wonder Rutland has room for it all," Kai had muttered as he'd stood watching the procession of the lord's arrival. Gawain had been there too, and had added,

"I don't suppose Rutland would be willing to take it all back, please and thank you?" Terence, standing slightly behind both of them, had snorted loudly, but neither Seneschal nor knight cared to admonish him.

After the poor castle staff was panting and sweaty from hauling Sir Turdoc's things up three flights of stairs, half a dozen of Arthur's knights, Arthur himself, and Sir Turdoc convened in the king's private banquet hall for dinner. The room was smaller than the grand hall, made especially for official dinners such as this one. Gawaine's squire Terence was one of only two squires in attendance. (The second was a young lad named Arys, who was still learning the ropes and insisted on doing everything. He had a horrible habit of watching Terence like a hawk in order to learn from him. Terence didn't have the heart to explain what a wretched example he was.) The other six or so knights relied on the services of the kitchen staff throughout the meal, which was neither here nor there to anyone involved, because the dinner was so small.

Terence didn't think that Sir Turdoc actually realized how small the dinner was, but of course he couldn't have known that the actually _popular_ knights like Gawain or Sir Kai attracted attendance of twenty or thirty at the least. Even if he _did_ know, Terence was beginning to think that the man wouldn't have noticed if no one had showed up at all, because he talked enough to fill an entire dinner's worth of conversation on his own. From across the table, Sir Tor sent Terence a desperate look, and the squire gave a returning look of equal exasperation: _believe me, I know_.

He shifted on his feet for the umpteenth time that night, and out of the corner of his eye saw Arthur glance at him from Gawain's left. Terence was generally good about standing still, and Arthur about looking engaged. The fact that both of them had broken character spoke volumes about the quality of the conversation.

"And of course, as you must know, your majesty, women can be such _troubling_ creatures, but when you try to explain the matters of _questing_ and _battle_, they really become downright intolerable…"

Gawain especially was happy when that topic faded from the conversation, so he could stop clenching his napkin in order to restrain himself. The other knights would come in occasionally with a comment, and course Arthur tried valiantly to find a way to sound interested, but Terence knew all of them and could see that they were just as bored as he was. They were probably having an even harder time at keeping their eyes open than Terence was because, unlike the squire who was required to stand, they all had temptingly soft cushions to sink into. For once, Terence was glad for his feet to hurt. At very least, it kept him awake.

Terence didn't pay attention to the conversation. He wasn't required to do anything but attend to Gawain's drink and food, and largely, his job was stillness and silence. Not that he minded at the moment. But then, somehow, the conversation turned, causing Terence's ears to perk up and his eyes to focus.

"There are some knights here at Camelot who have reported to be in the company of faeries themselves," Arthur was saying. He seemed to be responding to something Sir Turdoc had said.

"Indeed," Sir Tor put in, "And while I know of no… _particular_ accounts of knights visiting the Other World, one does hear things." He glanced for a second at Gawain, and Terence couldn't tell if he'd meant to or not.

"The Other World…" Sir Sagramore put it, "do not some call it 'Avalon'?"

"Yes, I believe they do," Said Sir Gawain all too casually, and Terence smirked to himself. Gawain had been slouching against the arm of his chair in a most un-knightly fashion for most of the night (he was just high-ranking enough to get away with it and just low-ranking enough for no one to really care) but now he straightened up in interest. He reached for his goblet to wet his unused throat, but found it empty. Quietly, he glanced back at Terence. Happy for an excuse to move, Terence took a pitcher from the serving table and stepped forward to refill Gawain's cup.

"I've read some about this 'Avalon'," said Sir Lionel, "some say it is ruled by a benevolent enchanter."

"Aye," Sir Kai cut in, "but a faery enchanter, he'd have to be," Gawain stole a subtle glance up at his squire as Terence poured his drink, and the two shared a smile through their eyes. As Terence was stepping away, Sir Turdoc caught his eye and nodded.

"Squire," he called curtly, and tapped the bottom of his goblet as Gawain might when asking for more wine. Terence blinked at him, not sure whether he was allowed to be affronted. Of course the rest of the room sensed the breach in protocol, to and silently stiffened in annoyance. Amongst the Round Table, at least, it was rude to the utmost to use another knight's squire without permission, especially when you were not familiar with the knight or his squire. Still, unwilling to cause a stir, Terence walked as calmly as he could to the other side of the table to tend to Sir Turdoc's cup.

"I do wonder sometimes what it is that makes faeries so different from humans," Sir Tor said engagingly, obviously trying to draw away from the sudden tension. "I can't say I've ever met one myself – or, if I have, I never noticed. Are they really so different from us?"

"Oh, aye," Said Sir Rynel, sounding confident of himself, "mysterious creatures, faeries. My brother came across one not a year ago while out near Cheshire, will tell you he's never met a body so unsettling." Terence came up beside Sir Turdoc and took hold of his glass just in time for the lord to say haughtily,

"All this talk of meeting faeries is rubbish, you know," his nasally voice made it sound even worse. "Every _sensible_ man I've ever spoken with on the matter is of the same mind; there is no such thing as faeries."

_CLANG!_

Terence's hand had slipped and the pewter pitcher rang against the rim of the goblet loud enough to make the entire room turn and stare at him. He was blushing from his neck to his ears, and trained his eyes on the goblet as he determined himself to fishing refilling it. He would _not_ look up at Arthur's surprised face, and _definitely_ not at that smile that Gawain was trying and failing miserably to conceal. He didn't manage to unsee Turdoc's annoyed eye-roll, however.

"Would we be able to regale any convincing tales to you, Sir Turdoc," Arthur said, tone diplomatic as ever, "or are you so adamant in your suppositions?"

"No," Turdoc said snootily, "I've heard quite enough, Your Majesty. If you please, I grew tired to faery tales long ago if only because they are all so unbelievably predictable."

"And what of all the reputable men, scholars and warriors alike, who attest to the existence of a faery realm?" Inquired Sir Sagramore. Behind Turdoc, Terence was proud of himself for refilling the glass without spilling anything. Turdoc laughed.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Sagramore, but there is no man and no argument that will ever convince me of such an unbelievable possibility," he said, just as Terence was replacing his glass on the table.

"I see," said Sir Gawain, peering across the table and just over Turdoc's shoulder, "not even if a faery were to come up behind you and knock you upside the head?"

Terence's whole body jerked as he bent over, and ruined his careful efforts by knocking Turdoc's goblet and spilling half of the wine on the white tablecloth. His eyes went wide. "I.. I am so sorry, milord," He managed, and Turdoc wheeled his head around to glare at Terence as if the squire speaking aloud was more offensive than the spilt wine itself. "I'll just…" He darted to the serving table as gracefully as it is possible to dart, and came back with a clean napkin. He set it under the goblet and topped off the glass. He was vaguely aware that the entire room was watching him again, Tor and Sagramore and others in confusion because Terence was normally so in control of himself. Gawain, on the other hand, was fighting to contain his mirth so hard that Terence thought he looked constipated. Resisting the urge to glare daggers, he muttered a few more apologies to Turdoc and went back around to stand behind his master, where he could glare at a mass of neat golden hair silently for the rest of the dinner. The subject of faeries died out in favor of other, duller topics, but Terence did not forget. Just near the end of the meal, as the kitchen staff was picking up dishes and cleaned platters, Terence stepped up under the pretense of taking Gawain's plate and hissed,

"You are _horrible_," before jerking the plate from underneath Gawain's nose. The knight snorted lightly in humor as he left. Arthur heard the exchange, and glanced questioningly at his nephew, but the knight only shook his head with a smile and looked away, expression far too smug for it to be nothing. Arthur let it pass, but mulled on it for a few minutes afterward, mind drifting between Turdoc's comments and Terence's peculiarly elfish face.

Arthur eventually decided that he actually wouldn't _mind_ seeing Terence knock Turdoc upside the head from behind. Absently, he wondered if it would change the lord's opinion on faeries.

…Probably not.


	3. Grown Up

Terence wiped his palms on his trousers for the fourth or fifth time, wishing they'd stop sweating. He fidgeted and wished the room wasn't so darned quiet. Well, it wasn't completely quiet. He could hear muffled noises from the room just through the doors, and the thought of what lie beyond made his palms go sweaty again.

Gawain cracked open one of the doors and slipped in, shutting it behind him quickly before he went to stand by his squire – of course, Terence wouldn't be his squire for very much longer after today, they both knew.

"Please tell me you told him in advance," Terence pleaded.

"I told him in advance," Gawain deadpanned.

"You're lying, aren't you?"

"Of course."

Terence cursed.

"Don't worry, lad, it'll be fine," Gawain said, standing behind Terence to dust off the shoulders of his doublet.

"Easy for you to say. Everyone already knows that _you're_ a duke."

"And yet I'm still in one piece, can't be too bad."

"They think I'm a squire!"

"You _are _a squire, at least, last I checked - or have you been cheating me all these years?"

Terence scowled. "You know what I mean."

"You'll be fine. Arthur will be surprised, yes, but he'll take it well."

"_How _will he take it well? I've been lying to my king for ten years!"

"Now, don't be melodramatic," Gawain said, patting Terence on the shoulders and turning him around to adjust his collar. "You've been lying to your _friend_ for ten years," He said helpfully, then paused and frowned hard, looking sheepishly up to Terence's eyes. "That didn't help, did it?"

"No."

"I think it actually made it-"

"What, worse? Yes it did, actually."

"Sorry."

"Mmhmm."

Gawain sighed and looked back down to Terence's collar. It was of faery make and thus impeccably styled, but Gawain might've been just as nervous for Terence as Terence was for himself, so he busied his hands with useless preening anyway.

"That was bad of me to say. But I really do believe it will be alright. You never lied, you know, you just… didn't tell the whole truth."

"Oh, and that's supposed to help, is it?"

"Perhaps," Gawain said sagely, "but lying or hiding or both, Arthur will understand. The king in him will let you explain, the wise man in him will listen, and the friend in him will understand every word. So," he patted both hands on Terence's chest. "_You_ need not worry, my Lord Duke."

"Don't call me that."

Gawain snorted.

They waited in silence for a few more minutes, before they heard muffled applause echo from the hall beyond the antechamber. Terence drummed his fingers nervously against his pantleg and glanced sidelong at his longtime friend and master. Soon to be former master, because once he revealed his true identity to Camelot, he was sure to be disallowed from serving as a lowly squire.

"Milord," He said, the formality feeling more fond and intimate than ever, the last time he would ever get to use it,

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

Gawain smiled. "Of course," he said quietly.

The door cracked open. Robin's face appeared in the gap.

"They're ready for you, your Grace."

Terence took a deep breath and looked back at Gawain. For a moment, he was the wiry, unsure boy he'd been when they'd first met.

"Go on then, lad," Gawain nodded toward the doors, feeling sentimental. He felt like he was saying goodbye to a chapter in his life. Terence felt the same. The duke nodded, and stepped out with Robin into the grand hall.

Behind them, the door swung shut, and Gawain sniffed to himself.

Not gone, not really. Just grown up.


	4. Grown Up part II

A/N: I actually wasn't going to write this, because I wanted that last drabble to focus mainly on Gawain and Terence's relationship and not so much on Terence's status and/or Arthur learning about it, but so many of you (of the many _hundreds_ of fans in this fandom there are) were disappointed that it cut off, I decided I'd finish off the storyline with another little blurb.

* * *

As soon as he stepped through the doors, the applause died. Halfway across the room, the silence broke, slowly. He was walking through a crowd of courtiers and knights, all of whom knew him, who saw him every day, who recognized his face and said his name after 'Squire'.

Even a half-faerie like Terence couldn't help but make some noise as he walked across a silent, echoing hall, and his bootheels sounded too loud on the floor. They were nice boots, too, from Avalon's best tailor. All at once, Terence felt that he was blushing furiously, and ducking his head, and feeling horrible, because really, what was _he_ doing in these clothes? These boots? This circlet? He was a squire. He shouldn't be here, walking toward that seat, getting these glances.

He had to consciously force his chin back up, trying to look confident when all he could think of was his pounding heart and sweaty hands. He knew that if he tried to open his mouth his throat would choke, or squeak, or produce some noise equally as embarrassing. For the first time, Terence understood why nobles employed heralds.

Robin hadn't been _employed_, per se, but he helped in the same way. He walked just ahead of Terence, taking the form of a young page and looking altogether unaffected by the stares and the whispers, until they reached the council itself. Representatives from all different courts and even countries sat in a ring – not at _the _Round Table, of course, for that was reserved for Arthur's knights, but in a table-less construction that upheld the same idea of equality. Between the seats of Orkney and Wales (Gawain told him the seats had been arranged randomly to avoid any accusations of favoritism) an empty seat would be his. He spotted it, and Gaheris, sitting for Orkney, graciously caught his eye with an encouraging smile. If Terence hadn't been so utterly petrified, he would have smiled back.

Horribly, Robin led him to the very center of the circle and stopped so that they were facing King Arthur. Terence tried to make sure no one would see how hard he was breathing, and looking anywhere but at Arthur's eyes. Unfortunately, with all the other eyes on him, looking away was nearly as bad.

"Your Majesty," Robin bowed to Arthur with a flourish, "My Excellency the Enchanter, Ganscotter of Avalon, is regrettably unable to hold council with your court tonight. In his place, he has sent his son," Robin gestured respectfully to Terence, "his grace, Duke Terence Apscottus, Crown Prince of Avalon."

Silence.

It was _real_ silence, this time, not broken by whispers or bootheels. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, nothing spoke or whispered or dared to blink. Terence was frozen in place in the center of the council ring, wanting nothing more than to dart to his seat, where at least he could _sit_, where he could clench his hands over the arms of the chair, where he could avoid Arthur's gaze and pretend for a moment that no one saw him. But here he was, stuck. After a long effort not to, Terence finally moved his gaze back and looked at Arthur. He wondered if the king could see how scared he was.

"Terence," Arthur's voice broke through the room like a trumpet. "…that is… may I call you that, your…" he sounded almost _unsure_, and the fact embarrassed Terence so much he cut Arthur off,

"Yes of course, Your Majesty," and he was shocked to find that his voice actually worked. He realized after it was rude of him to cut the king off, and blushed. Arthur seemed unfazed.

"Of course. Terence." His eyes were on the duke for a long time, before he straightened up with a deep breath. "Is it true, then, what your herald has said?" Arthur's voice was quiet enough, but Terence knew the whole hall could hear their conversation.

"Yes, your Majesty. Ganscotter, ruler of Avalon, is indeed my father. I am who Robin has said I am." He wondered if it was out of protocol to call Robin by his name. How did nobles _do_ this?

Arthur nodded slowly, and brought a hand up to his mouth thoughtfully. "I recall, Terence, a comment made to me some years ago by a friend of yours – Sir Gawain."

Terence swallowed, and nodded.

"When he first came to Camelot, he remarked that he believed you to be of faery blood." He paused. "He also told me that you did not know your ancestry, be it faery or otherwise." There was a question in the statement, and Terence realized that he was expected to answer.

"What Sir Gawain told you was true at the time, Sire," Terence said, choosing his words carefully. "I spent over a year at Camelot before I learned of my heritage," he didn't say how unworthy he still felt over it all. Arthur only stroked his chin sagely, absorbing.

"I will not say I'm not surprised," Terence wondered if he was imagining the smile in the king's voice, "but it is not a displeased surprise. Not in the least." The way he said the last words made Terence look up, directly into Arthur's eyes. He frowned a bit when he saw the gratitude in them. "However, I must now ask, _Prince _Terence," the whole court murmured at the acknowledgement, "for my own curiosity and that of my court: why does the crown prince of the most powerful family of the most powerful kingdom of the faery realm stoop to serving as a squire for over ten years?"

Terence gulped. It all made perfect sense in his head, but how would explain it to someone? He'd known for years that Morgan thought he was crazy. Even Robin questioned him from time to time – Gawain, Eileen, they had all wondered at _some _point why he bothered. Ganscotter understood. But Terence had never heard his father articulate the idea any more than he had. He took a breath, and paused for several heartbeats before saying,

"When I met my father, when I learned of my heritage, I was given a choice: stay forever in Avalon with my father, or continue what I had been doing when my homeland found me again. I chose the latter." He didn't have to explain what he had been doing beforehand. Arthur's eyes flicked off to one side of the room and Terence heard a door shut. He knew instinctively that Gawain had come in. The king turned his eyes back to Terence, and narrowed slightly before asking,

"…Why?"

Terence's mind was frozen. What could he _possibly_ say? "Because…." He paused so long it grew awkward.

And then, suddenly, the words were there like they'd never left.

"Because, while Avalon is my true home, my life," he paused, and glanced discreetly to where he thought Gawain and Eileen might be, "and my heart, have always been here, Your Majesty. The choice was an easy one."

When he looked back up at Arthur, it was like the moments when Arthur had looked at him after something had _happened, _the moments when Terence forgot himself and bowed from the waist and not lower. It was the moments when High King and lowly squire saw each other for their true selves, and understood each other. For the first time that evening, Terence felt completely comfortable, completely confident. Arthur smiled. When the king moved his head, it began as a nod, but when he held it down for three seconds, four, five, it became clear that it was not a nod, but a bow. He raised it again before anyone could react.

"Very well, Your Highness," Arthur said, and smiled wider because he saw Terence blush when he said it, "It is a privilege to have you on this council." Arthur gestured to Terence's seat, and the Duke took his seat nervously, because he was still being watched. "And Terence," Arthur called quietly, as he passed near the king.

"Your Majesty?"

Arthur looked up at him, and a thousand different days and thoughts passed between them. Arthur blinked, and it stopped. "Thank you," he said.

Terence walked in daze to his seat and fell into it, frowning slightly at what Arthur had said, his chest feeling oddly full. Whatever was going on in his head and his heart (for not even _he_ knew, just then) Geheris must've seen something behind Terence's eyes, because he chuckled when he and patted Terence's arm once he'd sat down.

"Well done, lad," He said in an echo of Gawain's accent, "That is, of course, _your Grace_."

Terence blushed. Geheris laughed again.

Slowly, throat full and eyes blinking, the Duke smiled.

* * *

A/N: By the way, the surname I gave Terence, Apscottus, is a combination of 'Scottus', which is the name Ganscotter uses when he is in the human world, and 'ap', a Welsh prefix used to denote 'son of'. So, literally, it means 'son of Scottus'. I just thought he needed a good surname in there to make his toplofty title complete, so I indulged myself. Yup. Hope y'all enjoyed!


	5. Attempts

A/N: Warning: This one will not be fluffy. This one is pretty horrible, actually, so brace yourselves for some Terence!Whump. I think I mentioned this particular… instance in my story _Convergence_ at some point, because it's not a new idea of mine. I'll have to go check that. But whatevs. Enjoy!

* * *

They'd come out of nowhere. At first Gawain had thought they were bandits, but then they'd started using magic, and reality took a turn for the worse.

Faeries, naturally. Unseelie fearies, by the look of it, and as soon as he heard them speaking in one of the odd dialects found only in the Other world, Terence cursed and nudged his horse to run faster. Guingalet kept pace easily, but everything was moving too fast for Gawain to ask questions. Terence produced his longbow like he'd been waiting for such a moment all day, and fired back at their pursuers with the accuracy and grace that only a faery could manage. One enemy went down, two. But there were too many for Terence to take on his own, and they were gaining on their horses, fast. Before the Unseelies were on them entirely, Gawain unsheathed his sword with a roar and leaped off Guingalet. Terence did likewise, grabbing the faery blade from his saddle, which no one at Camelot realized belonged to _him_, not Gawain. They faced their attackers together, side by side when they arrived within striking distance.

Gawain never knew what to expect when it came to faeryfolk, but he would have never expected _these_. They were human – or at least, they looked more human than any Unseelie faery Gawain had ever seen. He was used to hags and ogres and boggarts – these had human faces, arms, and legs. They were his height and had voices like what he was used to, save the language. But they had smooth, grey skin. Gawain was tempted to think that it was paint, that they really _were_ human, but then Terence scored a hit on one and when he drew back, the blood on his blade was poison green. Gawain hadn't realized he was staring, doing nothing, until Terence turned to look at him like he'd gone mad and yelled,

"GAWAIN!"

The panic in his voice brought the knight back, and Gawain's ears told him to turn around. His feet and hands worked just fast enough to stop the broadsword that came slamming down on him. He parried and used the impact to push him into a rebound off to one side. Surprised by the sudden movement and unable to stop his heavy weapon, the grey swordsman couldn't stop Gawain when he came right back in for the kill.

Terence was holding his own with three smaller opponents to one side, and when Gawain had time to look, he realized that his squire was using moves and parries that he'd never taught him. He leaped over low swipes and spun his blade in moves that anyone at Camelot would have called flamboyant, but Terence somehow used to deadly effect. In the back of his mind, Gawain realized that someone at Avalon must've been training Terence in faery swordplay. Another part of Gawain's mind wondered why.

They were hopelessly outnumbered. Gawain didn't know who these people were, aside from their Unseelie affiliations, much less what they wanted, but he was frustrated that he might not find out before they killed him. After fifteen minutes or so, Gawain and Terence had managed to pick off a substantial portion of the attackers, but the stragglers were still coming at them strong, and both Knight and Squire were beginning to feel the pangs of exhaustion set in. This was not a war, this was a ten-to-one skirmish in the heat of the afternoon.

Gawain's mind was beginning to shut down, shrinking his focus to survival alone, although he made himself keep constant tabs on where Terence fought at his flank. Thrust. Parry, dodge, _breathe_. Lift, strike, one down, two.

Then, something happened. Their attackers began to withdraw, looking at each other and nodding, retreating out of fighting range to gather and form something of a semicircle around Gawain and Terence.

"Milord!" Terence called, waiting for orders or some kind of reassurance. Gawain wanted to answer, but he was breathing too heavily and had nothing to say. He let out a half-breathed battle cry, daring them to come at him again but unwilling to initiate an attack himself.

As one, the grey men raised their hands and begun chanting. Gawain was not a faery, and he was not a magician, but he knew magic when he heard it. His face cleared into a look of panic, expecting a fireball or a rabid beast or something equally as unsavory appear and tear them to bits, but for several heartbeats, nothing happened.

In the end, what happened next was actually worse.

Terence screamed. The sound so startled Gawain that he turned from his enemy and looked back at his squire, whose free hand had shot to his head. His teeth were bared, face clenched in pain.

"Terence?" He called breathlessly, worried. The chanting behind him seemed to echo louder, and Gawain wondered if he was being tricked into hearing that powerful thrum in the air. Terence screamed again and dropped his sword. Forgetting the grey men, Gawain ran to his squire.

"Terence!" He yelled, leaping over corpses to get to his friend's side. Terence was kneeling on the ground, hands at his head. As Gawain fell down next to him, a thrum like a shockwave pulsed through Gawain's chest and Terence screamed again. It was a sound that Gawain had never heard from anyone, much less from Terence, and it chilled him to the bone. "Terence, _Terence, _lad. Look at me! What've they done to you?" He grabbed Terence shoulder and the squire's head lolled around to look at him helplessly for a moment.

_I don't know_, the look said, and Terence was able to glare helplessly at the grey men before another bar of their chanting sent him to the ground screaming again.

Gawain felt tears forming in his eyes because he'd never felt so helpless. Terence did not have a mark on him. He'd been grazed on the arm and was sweating from exhaustion, but there was no wound, no injury that Gawain could see that would cause this agony. He looked back at their enemy and considered rushing them, but he was too beaten. There were still nine of them, and only one of him, and he was exhausted almost to the point of collapse.

"Terence," He turned back to his squire, who was sinking all the way to the ground, now, breathing sharply and screaming and looking very, very scared. Gawain took off his gloves, putting one hand behind Terence's neck and taking the man's hand with the other. "Lad, tell me what to do, you have to tell me how to help you," he pled.

Terence groaned and fought to keep his eyes on Gawain. "I… 'on't…" he tried to speak, but was cut off when an invisible force rammed into him and he jerked upward with a cry, trying to double in on himself but too shocked from pain to manage it completely

"_Stop it!_" Gawain heard himself yell, although he knew in his head it was useless, "for God's sake, _stop it_!" there _were _tears in his eyes now, because Terence was being torn apart by magic, from the inside out. He was scared, and Gawain couldn't help him, and that scared Gawain more than the magic itself.

They didn't stop it. The nine grey men did not look interested in attacking the duo anymore, and had dropped their weapons at their feet. But they stood, hands extended, chanting their magic spell and staring intently at Terence as he writhed on the bloodied grass.

"G'wain," Terence mustered, voice shaking, from tears or pain or both," G'wain, please…" The words that came next would remain branded horribly into Gawain's mind in the future. "Please, just kill me." He jerked again, moaning, hands clawing at some unseen _thing _at his core, near his gut, but he couldn't wrangle it.

"No," Gawain shook his head. "No, no, don't you dare, Terence, don't you even _think_ it, you hear me? You'll… you'll be alright," He promised emptily, because being alive and being alright were very different, and it was obvious that Terence was not alright. "If you die, there'll be hell to pay, you know that." He tried to smile encouragingly, but it was a doomed effort. "I'll not see you think that way, now, Terence. Terence?" Gawain shook the man lightly, because he was beginning to go limp, to put up less of a fight. The stiff jerks and moans told Gawain he was still in severe pain, but his body had gone pale and unresponsive, too shocked by whatever it was experiencing to go on. "Terence!" what else could he possibly say? "Look at me, lad, look at me," He grabbed his face, but he was too far gone.

A horn sounded nearby.

It wasn't a sound Gawain knew from Camelot, or Orkney. It was higher-pitched and resonate, a sound that could've been a promise or a threat. He felt rather than heard hoofbeats charging up the slope. The chanting stopped, and the grey men turned to look, and yelled warnings to each other in that odd language. They scattered, but three of them sprouted arrows from their heads and necks, falling as their comrades fled. A phalanx of white and grey horses thundered into view. The helmets of the riders were tall and gleaming – faery horsemen, from Avalon itself.

"Sir!" Their leader called to Gawain, as his riders rode after the retreating Unseelies. As he rode closer, Gawain could see a commander's gold trimming the silver of his helmet. "Is your friend hurt?" He asked, cantering over.

"Please," Gawain turned to beg assistance, but before he could get further, the rider was right above him, and had recognized Terence.

"Sweet Avalon," He breathed, and leaped off his horse. "Nairn!" He called urgently back to his company, "It's the Prince! Come quickly!" He tore off his helmet and knelt at Terence's side. Long gold hair obscured his face from view, so Gawain was having trouble reading his expression as he looked Terence over.

"Magic," He said almost immediately. "Dark magic." He pressed his fingers against Terence's jugular and frowned. "His heart has gone mad – I've never seen anything like this. "Nairn!" The commander called again, looking up even as cradled Terence's face in his hands.

"Here, Rhys," an older faery called, and came forward to kneel by Terence. He put his palms on Terence's forehead and on his chest and started muttering strange words over him. Gawain was confused and worried, and apparently it showed, because Rhys looked to him and said,

"Nairn is the best healer we have. If they've done a dark spell on him, Nairn will know."

Gawain put a hand to his head. His temples had begun to throb.

"Are you alright, Sir Gawain?" Rhys asked. Gawain looked back up and was slightly surprised to find that his eyesight was swimming. He blinked a few times to clear it away.

"Will he be alright?" He asked instead of answering. Rhys looked down at Terence, and glanced at Nairn, who was too absorbed in his work to answer the question himself.

"We were able to intercept the spell before they could finish. However, I have never heard such magic before. I am not sure how much damage has been done."

"We need to get him back to Avalon," Nairn announced, "quickly. We will need more than just myself to purge this magic." He looked… _disturbed_. Rhys nodded.

"Right. Ailis!"

A tall armored woman rode up on a massive mare, a long dark braid trailing from her helmet. "Sir?" she said, dismounting and coming nearer.

"We need to get his grace back to his father's house as quickly as possible. Your mount's the swiftest of us all, you'll take the prince and ride ahead."

Ailis looked slightly over to where Gawain and Terence had tied their steeds. "Maybe not _the_ fastest, commander. Sir Knight," She turned to Gawain, "the black aughisky – he yours?"

"Guingalet, yes, he is. And I'm Gawain,"

Ailis' blue eyes lit with recognition. "My Lord," She bowed quickly, and Gawain would only remember hours later that, to these people, Gawain was considered nobility not just as a knight, but also through marriage to the royal family. "With your leave, Commander, I would take Sir Gawain with me, for two aughiskies make even better time than one."

Rhys was helping Nairn get Terence into a seated position. "So long as Sir Gawain agrees," he said.

"I would have insisted even if I'd only had a mule," Gawain told them, eyes on Terence. Ailis looked sympathetic.

"'Tis just as well you have not, my lord. Get him secured to your Guingalet. Seghlrain and I will lead the way." She remounted on her steed, a stunning white aughisky with Guingalet's dark flashing eyes.

It was not long before Gawain was mounted up behind his squire. Terence was still jerking, his breathing erratic. It scared Gawain, but he could do naught but hold on and try to keep his own body moving. He was exhausted from battle, his muscles on fire, his mind in a whirl, but he somehow managed to keep Guingalet racing at full speed, right behind Seghlrain's whipping white tail, all the way to Avalon.

The sky was beginning to melt into colors of dusk when they finally caught sight of the island. As the two massive horses thundered across the bridge to the island, Ailis pulled something to her lips and blew. A horn blast cut through the air, announcing their arrival. She blew again, shortly, and again, longer. Faery customs were so different from human customs, Gawain usually had to be told what everything meant. But the horn signals were not so different than those of Camelot, and Gawain recognized what this one meant. Royalty was returning to court – _injured_ royalty. By the time they made it to the gates, there was a throng of faeries waiting for them in the courtyard, faces all lit with concern and alarm. Gawain spotted Cuchulain among them. Away from Avalon for so long, it was one of the few faces he knew.

The minutes after their arrival was a swirl of colors and sounds and trying to find Terence in the crowd where they were sweeping him off to the infirmary. Gawain muscled his way through the throng, insisting on following. He thought for sure they would push him away, but at last Ailis came to his rescue and cleared a path behind the faeries who were bearing their prince away on a stretcher. Gawain heard them call for various names, for healers and magicians, for friends and of course, for Ganscotter. Gawain only had eyes for Terence, who looked even paler than he had before, still twitching, eyes still going wide with fear, breaths still jerking in pain.

Gawain could feel himself reaching the very end of his rope, the point where he would have to collapse, whether he liked it or not, but he kept his feet moving. Terence was dying. And Gawain wasn't about to let him leave for good whilst his master lie out cold on the floor. He deserved far better than that.

* * *

A/N: …I'm horrible. I'm sorry. There _will_ be more parts to this, at least one, two perhaps. I hope it's not _too _overdramatic for your tastes.


	6. Attempts part II

Gawain had once heard the saying, 'Beware the fury of a patient man'. He'd never had reason to remember the saying until now.

Ganscotter's entrance into the infirmary was expected, but even so, Gawain hardly recognized him. Where Gawain remembered laughlines and eyes crinkled in laughter, the Enchanter's mouth was hard and thin, his brow low and angry.

"Who?" He demanded, storming toward the bed where healers were crowded around his son. "Who did this?"

"Greymedes, m'lord," Said Ailis, who'd stayed the entire time, "We intercepted them before they could complete their spell, but the prince was already down by the time we got there." Nairn worked by Terence's head with three other healers. Ganscotter moved to his son's side, and two of the healers moved aside to give him room. He brushed a hand over Terence's forehead, holding his hair back and leaning close to his face to look into his son's eyes. He muttered something to Terence that Gawain couldn't hear. After looking his son up and down, Ganscotter bent his head and breathed out slowly. He eventually straightened, but did not move his eyes from Terence, who was lying motionless, now, but was still sweating, eyes open. "Nairn," Gawain had never heard the Enchanter's voice strain before. "Find out what they've done. Do not let them take my son." The head healer nodded seriously, eyes sad for his lord, before turning back to his work.

Ganscotter looked up at Gawain for the first time. He must've looked terrible, because Ganscotter's angry expression softened instantly. "And for God's sake, have someone take Sir Gawain to his bed."

"I'm fine, m'lord, I stay with Terence," Gawain gestured, but paused and winced when a sudden pain laced through his temples. He groaned.

"Gawain?" Ganscotter asked, coming near.

"I'm fine. I just…" He screwed his eyes shut and opened them again, but his vision was swimming, not unlike before on the field, but stronger this time, and with a headache. "A headache," He said. Ganscotter put a hand on his son-in-law's shoulder.

"Even so," He said, and motioned to a faery youth who was hovering behind Nairn. When the boy (who was probably far older than he looked) reached Gawain's side, his eyes were focusing somewhat better and he could make out a strawberry-blonde mop above hazel eyes that watched him kindly.

"Gawain, this is Hal, he is Nairn's son and apprentice. Hal," He turned to the boy, "see to him completely. He might've been touched by the spell, too."

"Yes, Sire," the faery said, and led Gawain gently over to the bed next to Terence. He sat Gawain down so the knight could still see his squire, and gently touched Gawain's head, tilting it and looking with a sight that must've seen more than a human could. He muttered a few things in a sweet, foreign tongue, but seemed relaxed. It was only at the end of his examination that Gawain saw any concern cloud Hal's face, and it was more confusion than fear.

"Father?" He called, looking behind him. Nairn looked up. "come here a moment?" Nairn came over, and his son began speaking in their faery tongue, which Gawain couldn't understand. Normally, he would've been offended, but at that moment his mind was too muddled for him to care either way. Eventually, Nairn gave him an appraising look and sighed. "Very well. Sir Gawain," He made sure the knight was paying attention, "you seem to have been bewitched much as Terence – albeit far more slightly. Do you hurt very much?"

"My head, a bit… I'm fine, really," Gawain insisted tiredly. "My eyes are a bit… off…" He rubbed at them again. When he looked, Nairn was nodding, looking relieved.

"That's good. If it worsens, tell me."

"What is it?" Gawain asked, "What did they _do _ to him?" he craned his neck to see Terence. Nairn frowned. "We are working on it," was all he could say. "Our first task is to relieve his pain, before we can untangle the spell itself." Gawain sighed, and now couldn't tell if his eyesight was swimming because of the spell or his fatigue. Nairn stepped away to Terence's side once more, but his son stayed to say,

"You need rest, milord, unless you want it to grow worse."

"I _will_ stay with Terence," He gritted out. Hal looked sympathetic, but still said,

"If not for the spell, you would, but unless you want it to worsen, you _need_ sleep to keep your body strong."

"No," Gawain didn't want to fight, but he had to, because Terence was worth it, "No, I _have_ to stay, I can't… can't _leave him…_"

"He is in good hands," Ganscotter appeared and spoke gently. At a look from the Enchanter, Hal nodded and stepped away. Ganscotter went around to hold Gawain by the shoulders and look down into his dizzy, exhausted face. "You need sleep, my son."

Gawain tried to shake his head, but couldn't. "I…I can't _leave_,"

"Not for long, and not far from here. I have a room already set up for you."

Gawain managed to send him a confused look, because Ganscotter couldn't have sent word to the servants _that _quickly. "There is always a room here for family," Ganscotter said matter-of-factly, and didn't give the knight a chance to answer before handing off the bleary-eyed knight to Ailis. Standing up was ten times harder than sitting down, and Gawain had to look down at his feet to make sure they were walking correctly without falling over.

It wasn't long before they'd made it into a quiet bedroom. Ailis made him sit down on edge of the bed so he would've fall over, and the plush bedding would've looked inviting if not for the fact that Gawain could only think of his squire, dying somewhere that wasn't here. Ailis was just taking her leave of him when someone else appeared. The two spoke, but for some reason Gawain's hearing wasn't working, and he didn't understand what they'd said. Then, Ailis left and someone else took his hand softly. A sweet, calm aroma filled his senses, and recognition made him look up.

"Lorie?" He croaked, suddenly feeling tears in his eyes.

She smiled at him, despite the obvious worry all over her face. "Yes, love," she whispered. Without another word, she took his face in both of her hands and pulled him into her chest. Brow against her collarbone, Gawain felt something sweep over him, like relief or defeat, and he snaked his arms around his wife and cried into her shoulder. Whether it was because of Terence, or Lorie, or his head, or all three, Gawain wasn't sure. He could only sit on the edge of the bed and weep into the embrace of a wife he hadn't seen in well over three years, tired to the bone and worried sick. Lorie kept her hands wrapped around his shoulders and neck until he fell asleep against her. She put a pillow under his head and layered the covers on top of him, but did not join him in sleep that night.

Gawain wasn't the only one who had care to worry over Terence. Lorie stayed through the night for her husband, but all the while she watched the door for news of her brother.

* * *

A/N: Once again, I'm horrible. I didn't plan for this arc to be longer than two chapters, but guess what! More cliffies. I'm having a hard time wrestling my Squire's Tales writing bug back into shape, after my writing was sideswiped by a wave of HtTYD feels. They're sure to last, but I want to write for other stuff,too.

Sorry this one is so short. Like I said, I've been having ST block, and also, I'm pressed for time at the moment. Anywho, hoped you've enjoyed this bit!


	7. Uncle

**A/N: **I know, I _know_, I still haven't finished the last story arch and basically left Terence to die miserably. I WILL FINISH IT, it is in the works. I'm just having a bit of trouble with it, but never fear, it will be next. Only, this fluffy blurb has been beating around in my head for a month or more, and I needed to get it down so it'd stop bugging me. Thanks to **Feste the Fool** for looking it over before I posted it.

* * *

The door opened and closed, and Gawain could hear Terence's footsteps at the entryway.

"And how is the life of a duke treating you, your grace?" He deadpanned, not looking up from his book. "Avalon nice this time of year?"

Terence didn't answer either question. Instead he shrugged off his travelling cloak and smiled wryly. "You and Lorie have been sneaking off together, haven't you?" He sounded suspicious and somehow _smug_. Where his squire couldn't see, Gawain looked up suddenly from his reading in an expression of panic. Trying incredibly hard to remain casual, he flipped a page and said,

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The hell you don't," Terence scoffed, tossing his cloak over the back of a chair and unbuttoning his doublet as he sauntered into the room. Gawain trained his expression and finally turned in his chair. He was taken off-guard by the huge grin on Terence's face.

"Robin told me the news this morning," the squire said, voice practically bubbling with merriment.

"News?" Gawain didn't have to pretend at being confused this time, "What news?"

"Oh, come on, Gawain, don't play coy with me," Terence was still beaming, even as he rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms (still smiling) and bounced forward as he asked, "I'm going to be an _uncle?"_

There was a supremely awkward moment as Terence prepared to laugh and Gawain blinked in non-comprehension.

"Uncle?" The knight said eventually. Terence's smile faltered.

"Yes," He said slowly, "Yes, that's generally what they call it, I think… I am her brother, after all."

"Her… brother." Gawain said. Then, slowly, alarm took over his face, and his voice. "S-sorry, did you say _uncle? _As in, _you, _uncle?"

Terence wasn't smiling anymore. "Oh god, you don't actually know, do you?"

Gawain had gone white as a sheet. "A-are you saying that Lorie-"

"Oh _god_,"

"_Uncle?!"_

"I thought you _knew!"_

"_Knew?!_" Gawain was nearly rising from his seat, voice high with surprise and panic. "How would _I _know?!"

"Robin said Lorie told you days ago!"

Gawain sputtered indignantly. "_Told_ me? How would Lorie tell me anything? I haven't _seen_ her, much less _spoken_ with her since we- the last time we-" Gawain looked helplessly up at his squire, and Terence looked helplessly back at him, both at a loss for words, when a helpful-sounding voice from the dinner table piped up,

"_Snuck off_, were you going to say?"

Two heads whipped around to find Robin perched atop one of Gawain's high-backed dining chairs, swinging his feet, cheeks dimpled.

Terence suddenly had the face of a duke again, a very, very irate duke. _"Robin!" _ he yelled, "you said he _knew!"_

Robin didn't bother answering, because he was no longer at his perch. Instead, he was rolling on the ground, howling with laughter. "Oh, oh, your _faces_," He squeaked out eventually.

"Now hold on just one minute here," Gawain put out his hands, looking seriously between the two faeries before him, seething and wheezing as they were. He pointed a finger at Terence. "_Uncle?!"_ He enunciated carefully.

"Indeed, Sir Gawain! It's the talk of the entire Other World!" Robin wiped away tears of laughter and leaped up in front of the knight, bouncing on his toes.

"But… you're saying that Lorie is-"

"Oh yes!"

"And _I'm _going to_-_"

"You already are, in a manner of speaking," Robin winked. Gawain just sat there, staring ahead like he couldn't get his brain to keep moving. Robin's shoulders bobbed in amusement and he turned to Terence.

"He doesn't catch on very quickly, this knight of yours."

Terence was actually too baffled by the situation to say anything.

"Yes, I do think you ought to have a chat with your wife, Sir Knight. I hear she has some exciting news to put to you." Robin turned and waggled his eyebrows at Terence. Gawain began sputtering in confusion at what the faery had said. "Ah ah ah," Robin tutted, turning to him with exaggerated movements. "Have no fear my friend, I've come to take you to her straightaway." He walked up toward Gawain and took his hand, although the knight didn't seem to notice. "Oh, and by the way, _thank you_, your grace," Robin dipped a quick bow at Terence, whose frown momentarily twitched from outrage to confusion.

"What on earth for?"

"For your help; this is the best laugh I've had this century." Robin tossed a glace back at Gawain, whose face was a picture, and looked back at Terence, "See? It's still funny," and giggled.

Terence's jaw was hanging open, absolutely furious with himself that Robin had played him so thoroughly, that he hadn't seen the trick sooner. "Robin, you horrible, stinking little _shi-"_

Robin and Gawain disappeared before Terence could finish, Robin's laughter fading only after Terence was done cursing.


	8. Flirting

**A/N: **So apparently with that last oneshot, I sparked a complete AU where Gawain and Lorie have twin daughters and all _sorts_ of crazy Faery Family AU stuff comes from it. The contributors to this AU are myself and Feste the Fool, who writes ST fanfic way better than mine. If you haven't read her stuff, you need to right now. In her oneshot/drabble collection _Especially There_ she's posted a few snippets from this AU of ours.

Speaking of, here's one that I wrote up today:

* * *

To say that Gawain had been _reluctant_ about letting his daughters come to Camelot for holiday was putting it lightly. He was actually taking it all like a five year old throwing a tantrum, moping and all. But Lorie and Ganscotter seemed to think the idea was a wonderful one. Lottie and Brigette were, by court standards, well of age (no one used the term 'marriageable age' in Gawain's presence) but had only ever seen the world of men a handful of times, and never in a place so lively or important as Camelot. The opportunity was long overdue.

Officially, they would be staying as Lady Eileen's guests – twin cousins of some relation, visiting from their home in north Wales. With so many noblewomen at court, and Lady Eileen vouching for them all the way, there was little worry that anyone would think twice on their identities.

At first, Gawain had argued that their fiery red hair and Gawain-esque smiles would give them away. But then, Lorie rolled her graceful eyes and whisked them away, promising it would not be an issue. When his girls had reemerged from their chambers, Gawain nearly had a heart attack, because his wife was right. They didn't look like Gawain anymore, nor even Lorie who'd been wearing a simple gown at the time. They looked like angels, strawberry blonde plaits woven like liquid silk all down their backs, dresses of rich fabrics making their bodies look like women and not girls. Their faces were glowing, and their smiles, no matter how Gawain-like they might have been, were all their own.

If anything, it made Gawain want to insist they stay home even more.

But his wishes were in vain, because now here they were, all sitting at one of Camelot's lavish banquets, laughter and gossip and courtiers and servants flitting about every which way. Gawain's trousers were covered in sweat because he kept wiping his palms on them. He'd keep casting nervous looks down the table to where his daughters laughed with a young knight and his ladyfriend. Then, he'd grow worried that someone might notice his furtive glancing so he'd make himself look away, but then he'd grow worried again and end up looking back anyway.

Terence, watching the repetitive exchange from behind, was being overly prompt that night, so he could step up and whisper, "Relax" every time Gawain's glass might be even partially empty. Eventually, Gawain grew irritated at the pestering and sent the squire away to find other work. Terence had only shrugged, and gone away.

But now he was having fun again, because he'd decided to wait on his nieces. As he came up and asked if they needed more food or drink, Lottie was bright red and trying very hard not to laugh, while Brigette (smile uncontainable) bashfully asked for another glass of wine, if you could, please, Unc-er, _Squire _Terence. Terence bowed unnecessarily low and backed away. Once he was gone, the sisters turned to each other and giggled in a girlish way they hoped no one would see.

This sort of exchange repeated itself several times through the night, and try as they might to contain their amusement over being served by their uncle the prince and duke, Lottie and Brigette's antics did, in fact, draw some eyes.

It was actually Arthur himself who alerted Gawain to the problem – not that the king would see it as a particular _problem_.

"You're about to lose your squire, I'm afraid," He came up, glass in hand, as couples filtered across the room, to the dance floor, and to friends.

Gawain looked up from where he'd been chatting with Sir Tor. "Pardon, Sire?" He asked.

"Your squire, Terence," Arthur nodded, "I believe he's found some… admirers."

"Admirers? Terence?" Gawain craned his neck, but he couldn't catch sight of Terence through the crowd.

"Yes," King Arthur told him, "Twin young ladies, they've been giggling at him since the banquet started. He seems to be enjoying it, I think. Ah, yes, just there," Arthur gestured as discreetly as he could, "You see them, red hair, near Lady Eileen. Her cousins, I believe she said."

Gawain _did_ see. He wasn't sure if he'd been white or red in the face, because he wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling beyond, '_the _hell_ are you doing, Terence?' _"Ah," He eventually managed out loud. "Yes, I do see. I suppose I ought to… have a word with him about that," He said, working hard to keep his voice even. Arthur laughed, completely unsuspecting to the deeper meaning of the interaction.

"I suppose you ought. Now if you'll excuse me, my brother is waving me over, lord knows what's happened this time. A nice night to you, nephew," And Arthur was away.

"You as well, your majesty," Gawain called halfheartedly back. He found himself grimacing in disgust and confusion as he realized that what Arthur had thought. Lottie and Brigette – _flirting? _With _Terence?_ Gawain shook himself and had to keep himself from sighing loudly. Eventually, he spotted his squire weaving along the outskirts of the dance floor, and set out on a path to intercept him.

"Terence," He called like any knight might to his squire, "come with me." And Terence fell into step easily, but started looking confused when Gawain led them out of the hall and into a quiet antechamber.

"Milord?" He asked, confusedly. Gawain rounded on him and growled,

"Stop indulging them."

"What?"

"Lottie and Brigette – you're indulging them."

"Oh, come on, Gawain," Terence whispered back in a scoff, "It's just good fun-"

"Yes, it's just _hilarious _that uncle Terence the prince is _serving_ us, oh, isn't that _something_, but now you've gone and made Arthur think you're…" he couldn't say it, for whatever reason.

Terence looked lost. "I'm… what?"

Gawain looked away, glaring at nothing. "He seems to think that they're trying to… that is, that you've been _flirting _with them all night."

At first, Terence's face did nothing. Then, a small snort, and all at once, he laughed so loudly that some courtiers would hear in from inside the banquet hall and wonder what was so funny. After a moment, he smacked a hand over his mouth, but the damage had been done. His eyes still crinkled in a smile, he said,

"You're joking," his smile made his voice sound bubbly.

"I'm not," Gawain replied darkly, not sharing in the joke.

"Oh, that's…. that's just _priceless_," He said, trying not laugh again. "They think I'm… It's funny, because _Eileen_ is only just a few seats down,-"

"Good, then go flirt with your _wife_, and not your nieces." Gawain grabbed Terence's bicep and thrust him back toward the hall.

"Not flirting," Terence insisted.

"I'll need to talk to them at the end of the evening, too," Gawain grumbled.

"You will, but – and this I know for a fact – they'll laugh harder about it than I did," he said.

And, at the end of the night, they did.


	9. Training with the Hound

It was storming over Camelot. Where rain was too common for words, it was a rarity for thunder and lightning to stir up this far west, this late in the year. The air rumbled with the clashing clouds, and most everyone was shut up indoors for a day that looked as dark as a night. The castle guard, however, wouldn't stand down for any weather. Still, their jobs that day were not aimed at protection, not really; mostly, it'd devolved into an effort not to drown and also to keep the lightning from fraying one's nerves. They talked to each other, and didn't look out past the walls all too often. It was hard to see anything through the storm, and besides, no one would ever venture out in this weather.

A massive knock resounded on the castle gates.

It took another two massive knocks until any of the guards would even credit the possibility that they were hearing it correctly. But it wasn't thunder and it wasn't their imaginations, so eventually their marshal, dripping water from his nose and helmet sounding like a drum, answered the door.

The man waiting was, predictably, soaking wet and looking none too happy for the fact. By his dress, he could have been a hunter, or a warrior, or even nobility, but water washed the look of his clothes away so the guard only saw that he was slightly shorter than any knight ought to have been, but strongly-muscled and rather scruffy. Lightning lit up the skies, and he could see that the man's dark hair boasted white-blond tips that glowed an eerie blue in the electric storm's light.

"Am I to be allowed in, or shall I just take a bath long enough for my next life, as well?" Even through a yell, the stranger managed a deadpanned tone.

"Who are you, and what is your business here?" the marshal was obliged to ask.

"My name is irrelevant and my business is my own."

The marshal glanced him up and down, and when the lightning next stuck, noticed for the first time the massive spear that the stranger held like a walking stick. The marshal's hand twitched by his sword.

"There will be no admittance for you here then, stranger."

"Even in this deluge, man?"

"Name and purpose, sir. Name or naught."

The man sighed, like he'd been expecting this. His skin was light and visible even in the dark as he sighed down the ground and pushed back soaking hair. He looked back up at the marshal resignedly.

"Name it is, then."

* * *

Arthur had been having an exceedingly boring day. It was too wet for any outdoor work, and after five hours at paperwork, the flickering candle light (for it was too dark outside for any good reading light) his eyes had driven him into a migraine. After nursing his migraine with medicine and alcohol, he'd sought out company to keep himself from going mad. Kai, Gawain, Tor, and Dinadan had kindly accepted his offer.

They'd just moved from wine onto a buffer of tea and biscuits (Dinadan insisted that the herbs would clear Arthur's head) when the doors to their lounge burst open. Arthur winced heavily into his pounding head while his knights whipped theirs around to see the newcomer: a soldier - a guard, actually, though it was hard to distinguish his rank beneath the sopping layer of surcoat and sure-to-soon-be-rusting chainmail.

"Your Majesty," his voice squeaked as much as his armor when he bowed low to the king, and slightly less low to the knights. "Sires," He said. "I- that is, I was told Sir Gawain would be present here, my lords?"

"He is," Gawain offered, smiling amiably, "Have you some need of me, soldier?"

"I-uh, not, no, Sir Knight. That is, not me. But only, there is, uh,"

Gawain frowned, because he recalled that the marshals of camelot's guard were all very well-spoken. "What? Spit it out, then," he coaxed.

"There's a visitor come to call for you, Sir. He appeared at the castle gate not moments ago."

"At the castle gate?" Tor asked, "In this weather? Surely not!"

"He was very insistent to see Sir Gawain," The marshal maintained, "I do believe seeing Sir Gawain is his sole purpose in coming here."

"Does this man have a name?" Kai put in. The marshal looked suddenly, completely hesitant.

"Uh, well. I… he did _give _me a name, milords, only…"

"Only what?" King Arthur finally spoke up. It made the man nervous, and he blushed.

"Only I'm not sure what to make of it, myself."

"Well go on, then," Gawain said. "If he's come for me, I probably know him. What name is it that's given you such trouble?"

The marshal shifted, squishing in his boots. "He called himself Cuchulain, my lord."

There was a sudden pause, with only the dripping of the marshal's clothes to fill the silence.

"Well that's just daft," Dinadan spoke suddenly, "What awful parents burden their child with a famous name like that? He's sure to have confusion follow him everywhere."

Tor chuckled. "Confusion indeed. You know any Cuchulains in your time, Sir Gawain?"

But Gawain was not smiling. "I might do," he said, genuinely thoughtful. "Send him in, if you don't mind."

And so the marshal retreated and did as the knight asked. Several minutes later, a man was shown in, hastily towel-dried but still quite drenched.

"Damn," Gawain said when he saw him, so only Arthur, who was sitting next to him, could hear.

"Your Majesty King Arthur," the man bowed very low, using his spear as a staff to help him rise back up. The guards at the door were watching the weapon keenly, even as he kept it. "I must apologize for my untimely appearance, I came to request an audience with your knight, Sir Gawain."

"I'm sure my nephew would be more than happy to oblige," Arthur ignored Gawain's tight-lipped expression, "but I must first make an inquiry of yourself, sir. My marshal who ushered you in has informed me that you are called Cuchulain, is that right?" Arthur asked. The man nodded easily.

"That I am, Your Majesty," He said.

Just as Arthur drew breath for the next question, Gawain stood loudly. "Yes indeed, Cuchulain, of course, erm, that is," He cleared his throat and started across the room for his friend. "I haven't seen you in some time, I'm very anxious to hear what it is that you've come all the way to Camelot for," He reached the man and put an arm around his shoulder. Cuchulain, calm as ever, cocked an eyebrow Gawain's charade sidelong. "I'll just be a moment sire," Gawain tossed back at Arthur, "I'm sure it's nothing we can't cover in a short while to start, now if you'll just step with me," he guided Cuchulain so that their backs turned on the rest of the room. As soon as the others could not see, all of Gawain's pretense vanished and he whispered angrily into the man's ear, "What the devil has he done now, then?"

Cuchulain shifted his spear so he his face rested against it, near to Gawain's face conspiratorially. "You know I've come about His Grace, then?" his whispered back.

"What else would you be about? And why on earth would you give them your _name_? But –nevermind. What's Terence gone and done that he sends Avalon's champion to tell me about it?"

"Stood me up. He was supposed to be in Avalon this week. When he didn't show, I was forced to come looking for him."

"Stood you- but, what's so important that he'll be missed?" the continued to whisper, faces inches apart, voices frantic and low.

"An appointment with me that he's known about for ages. Now, is he here at Camelot, or have I more to worry about than his bad sense of punctuality?"

"No, he's here, back in our rooms."

"Oh, good," Cuchulain seemed genuinely relieved.

"Now what's this about? You've come all the way from Avalon just to make sure your duke is tucked in at night? Surely whatever it is it can't be _that_ important that you have to go and spoil your identity in front of _Arthur_ of all people – Cuchulain, you're supposed to have _died_ three-hundred _years-"_

"Ahem," Arthur cleared his throat as loud as his headache would allow him.

Gawain and Cuchulain turned as one, the latter looking far more composed as he did so.

"Is something amiss, Sir Gawain?" Arthur asked, a hand going up to rub his temple.

"Not at all, your Majesty," Cuchulain came to Gawain's rescue, "I apologize, I have not seen Sir Gawain in a while, we were inclined to begin catching up straightaway. But I see that you are busy at the moment, Sir Gawain," He turned to the ginger-haired knight, "I'll leave you to your discussion and wait in the meantime – only, might I beg a change of clothes?" His eyes told Gawain what to say in response.

"Yes, of course, "the knight said, trying to sound casual and amiable. "I'll have an usher take you to my rooms – my Squire, Terence, will see to it you get dried off."

Cuchulain bowed. "Thank you, Sir," And bowed lower to Arthur, "And you, your Majesty." He began to back out of the room. Before he did, Gawain caught him around the arm and hissed in his ear,

"Let that imp know I'll be talking to him later,"

"I'm sure his Grace relishes your nicknames, milord," Cuchulain smirked, before squish-squashing away to Gawain's chambers behind a servant.

Gawain sighed to himself and rejoined Arthur. Kai and Tor said nothing as Gawain sulked, although Tor did send glances between Gawain and Cuchulain's retreating form. Eventually it was Dinadan who said,

"Is no one going to mention that _spear_ of his?" and suddenly, the _clack clack clack_ing of Cuchulain's spear against the stone floor became abnormally loud. Gawain, who knew him, could tell even from behind that he'd begun smirking.

"What did he want then, Gawain?" Tor asked.

"Oh, nothing," Gawain sighed into his hand, watching Cuchulain go. "Just trying to hunt down the whereabouts of a mutual friend of ours."

"In this weather?" Kai scoffed.

"Oh, aye," Gawain nodded. "He's a determined chap, dog with a bone once he gets his mind on something… a right _hound_." And Cuchulain was just far enough away that only Gawain could see it when he turned and beamed a huge, cheeky grin at the knight's pun. When Gawain scowled and looked back up at his friends, they were all giving him very strange looks, particularly Dinadan. Gawain coughed and looked over at a footman who stood by Arthur.

"Anyway, all this talk has made me thirsty. Is there any cider left, man?"

"I recognize that accent of his. …" Dinadan was whispering seriously to Tor as newly topped tankards were passed around, "It'd be a damn coincidence, but… I think he may be from _Ulster_."

When Gawain choked quietly on his cider, bugged his eyes, and turned away quickly to hide both, Arthur was the only one to notice. But, with his headache, the king wasn't entirely motivated to wonder why.

* * *

"Alright," Gawain burst into his chambers, "Terence, what've you done to bring your Head Hound to Camelot and back?"

"I'm still here, actually," Said Cuchulain, who was sitting at Gawain's dining table, sipping at a glass of wine,

"Ahh, I didn't see you. My apologies." Gawain said, throwing himself into a seat across from Cuchulain and taking his own glass. It was that sort of day, at least. "Now then, where is he?"

"Gone." When Gawain looked sharply up at him, Cuchulain only shrugged. "It wasn't because of you – I only told him you were cross as he was heading out the door. Duty calls, apparently."

"For what?"

"I can't be sure, but I saw Robin out the window as he left."

Gawain sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That boy never tells me anything," he complained, feeling betrayed. He looked back up at Cuchulain with a pleading expression. "Well what were _you_ here for?"

Cuchulain shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "I actually thought he would've explained it to you beforehand, Sir Gawain. He was supposed to meet me in Avalon earlier this week for training."

"Training?"

"Combat training. Sword, mostly, and buckler, spear, axe. He may be head bowman in Avalon, but I've been mentoring him with the blade. He favors the longsword, but I think he's coming up well with double shortswor-"

"Wait, wait wait," Gawain held out his hand, "_Training_? Why- why does Terence need combat training? Doesn't he get enough of that from me?"

Cuchulain looked even more uncomfortable. "He… Well, yes, milord, sufficient for accompanying you into battle. But on his own, he's really only mediocre in a melee, and his father wants to make sure he can take care of himself."

"But he's _always_ with me."

"Not… always."

"Well, not when he's headed home and back, but that's only a few days at the most – does it really constitute a _house call_ for _combat practice?_" Gawain demanded. Cuchulain leaned his head back and sighed, face pained.

"Oh, by the brown bull," he muttered, "Really, Prince Terence should have told you all this, I don't know why he wouldn't. It was all Lord Ganscotter's idea. He wanted to make sure his son was ready to defend himself after…"

"After _what?_"

"There was… that is, a few months ago, there was an attempt."

"Attempt?"

"On his life."

Gawain was dumbstruck, and didn't say anything for a long moment. "_Assassins?_ He whispered, astonished. Cuchulain sent him a look. "Sent… sent to kill _Terence_?"

Cuchulain sighed again and bounced his spear absently against the floorboards. "If he didn't tell you about his training or the assassination attempt, I don't suppose he would've told you that the Other World has begun stirring up of late. It happens every few decades, but it's the first upstart since Terence's coronation and the Unseelies are taking full notice of the fact. There's bound to be some scuffles, but nothing we can't handle." He was trying very hard, almost too hard, to make his voice sound reassuring. Gawain felt almost patronized. Patronized and backslapped by a secret-keeping squire.

"…Right," he said, looking dejectedly down at the table. "…right."

Cuchulain sighed, too. "I'm sorry, sir. When I arrived here I really thought you'd know why I'd come."

"No, no he never tells me things. I don't know why." Gawain tried to shake off his hurt for the sake of pride. "But why not ask _me_ to train him? I'm with him constantly, I'm competent in warfare."

"That you are, Sir, of that I have personal experience. Even I could never best you in an English sword match," Cuchulain nodded respectfully. "But when it comes to _faery_ swordplay, I am three centuries your better. Any threats Terence will face will be faery in nature, and his father specified that he ought to know the blades of his homeland."

Gawain was nodding slowly. "I understand," he said, sounding tired, looking out the window, willing his squire to reappear so he might give him a verbal lashing. "Well, at any rate, I'd wager he's not too rubbish at it, is he?"

Cuchulain laughed, and in his excitement, his Ulster lilt grew. "Oh, not for the worlds, sir. He'll have a few things to teach you now, I'd wager. He's a hundred times the faery blood I have, and it shows. The movements are in the blood."

For however cross he was with the boy, Gawain felt a rush of pride. "Of course. I'd expect nothing less from him. I suppose you've got him a nice faery blade, as well?"

"Aye," Cuchulain smiled, and stepped up to retrieve a newly-polished longsword that stood against the doorframe. "One of Trebuchet's finest, for sure." He handed Gawain the weapon for inspection. Blue-black leather taught around the tang, pommel shining, blade glimmering a galvanized blue, elegant crosspiece unmistakably faery in design. It was stunning.

"A lucky man he is," Gawain said, giving a few experimental swings. The metal practically hummed against the air – in fact, Gawain wondered if there might be magic in it. "She have a name?"

"No, not yet. She's new, forged for the Prince especially. She'll not be named until she's seen battle, of course."

Gawain looked up at Cuchulain, as if wondering when that would be, wondering how many leagues away he would be when it happened. Cuchulain took the sword and sheathed it.

"And she'll be his guardian angel when it happens." He wrapped the belt back around the sheath and set it near Gawain. "Still, it's too fine a weapon for a squire. You mustn't let anyone see it, let alone wielded by Terence. Keep it with your own effects until Terence has need of it."

"He does relish letting me usurp all of his fineries, of course."

Cuchulain snorted. "Knowing him, he probably forgets they even belong to him."

"He does, actually," Gawain said, considering the closetful of faery things that Terence had never bothered to reclaim. "Sometimes, I swear he actually forgets he's a duke or a prince at all. He'd forget his faery blood entirely if he wasn't so incessantly thrilled with sneaking up on me."

Cuchulain barked out a laugh. "Aye, that does sound like him." He nodded, and breathed in deeply, looking up. "I'm afraid I must be off again, milord. Until I say Terence is fully competent in the faery blade, _I'm_ to be his guardian angel – that's why I was so prompt in coming to find him, you know." Gawain started looking annoyed again, and Cuchulain's expression softened. "I'm sure he only didn't want you to worry. But I'll be sure to send him home in time for an earful, if it'd make you feel better."

"It would."

"Thought it might." Cuchulain rose and took up his spear. Massive as it was, he handled it like a walking stick. "I shall send the Princess your love, of course," He bowed to Gawain, who brightened at the mention of his wife.

"Thank you, sir."

"Not Sir, milord, only friend."

"Well then, I demand the same. Goodnight then, Cuchulain."

"You as well, Gawain." Gawain saw the man off and closed the door behind him.

It wasn't five minutes before Terence came waltzing in the door.

"Terence!" Gawain exclaimed, ready to launch into a tirade, but the look of confusion on his squire's face stopped him. "What… are you doing?"

"I forgot my sword," Terence said absently, looking out the front door and down the hall. He looked suddenly over at Gawain, "Were you just visiting with Sir Dinadan, milord?"

Gawain frowned. "No, why?"

"Well, he's just gone jogging down the hallway. Following Cuchulain, I think."

"Oh, no." Gawain's face fell, eyes wide.

"What?" Terence turned. Gawain scowled.

"Bring a three-hundred year old Hound of Ulster into Camelot, someone's bound to notice. Or eavesdrop." Gawain sighed and brushed past Terence. "I'd better go and stop him before he ambushes him, starts writing ballads, asking questions." Right before he disappeared beyond the doorway, he paused and glared back at Terence.

"Get ready to explain everything – _everything_ - to a disillusioned bard." And as he jogged of after said bard, he added, "And don't you dare go anywhere, you've got a few things in particular to explain to me as well!"

Standing dubiously in the middle of Gawain's chambers, Terence bit his lip, grabbed his sword, and made for the window.

Best avoid bards _and _knights for the time being.


End file.
